A reeeeally degrading Top Ten list, man...

Don’t you just hate Top Ten Lists? They’re soooo degrading. I mean really, how can you narrow down and chalk up and sort and sift through and screen and say who is – and isn’t – list-worthy? How does one come up with the criteria? And what does that criteria mean? And who’s to say that one’s criteria isn’t complete crap, that their priorities are misaligned, that their values are all out-of-whack, and that they’re perpetuating society’s increasingly fucked-up perspective on cool and cute and hip and hubba-hubba-hot? What gives one the right to play Top Ten List God? Who died and made Top Ten List writers the kings and queens and princes and princesses and dukes and duchesses and dauphines and dauphins of qui est in and qui est out ? Just where do they get off??!

They should be ashamed of themselves, those Top Ten List writers, in all of their subjectively objectifying glory. They’re like those scoogie guys on the corner who stand around all day scratching at their crotches and making those whistley-woofy dog sounds when a girl walks by, followed up by a “huit sur dix !!” or a “nice legs – too bad about the face!” I bet they think they’re really something. I bet they all think that they’re a ten sur ten. No, non, I bet those knobs are like the knobs on that amp in This Is Spinal Tap! I bet they all think they’re an 11. I bet they all think that they’re God’s gift to Top Ten Lists. Oh, you just know they do.

Jerks.

Meanwhile, I don’t know if you know this but in Paris there are a lot of cute men. Frenchmen – all French and manly (well, in a French way) and fine. Running loose in the streets and the rues and the courtyards and the passageways…especially now, especially since it’s September, especially since they’re all back from the South for la rentrée, hair all surfy and sun-bleached and just so. You know that little petite moi wouldn’t descend so far as to create a list — you know me. And this isn’t really a list at all — it’s more of a rundown. You know, in an effort to assist you in your French education. (Oh, and it’s in no particular order. Not really. Anyway . . .)

10. Frédéric Taddeï

Ooooooh…O.K., I’m gonna break my own rule, just this once, just this one time, and when you take a look at him I think you’ll understand. (Quit looking at him like that!) (Bitch!!) You know, that he can’t be called anything else but a 10-out-of-10. The loosened tie? The goofy-boyish grin? The way he actually looks interested in what his guests are actually saying? The way he actually looks like he knows what they’re talking about? Ce soir ou jamais ! – it’s the name of his show. “Tonight or Never.” Well said, Fréd.

9. That Boy In The Métro (Line Two)

I saw you, you saw me . . . and something, Some Thing, un petit truc, passed between us. (Well, O.K., perhaps it was merely my Pariscope, which you borrowed because your iPhone was on the fritz, and you’d forgotten which cinéma on which quai in that dual-MK2 cinéma/resto complex thingy they built up over there along the Bassin de la Villette.) You were running late, late, late for a very important date, late for dinner and a movie. Dommage. Nice flippy-floppy hair, but too bad about the girlfriend. Oh, and not to be degrading or anything, but I’d give you a sept (7) sur dix (10). Lose the extra girl-baggage and I’ll give you an 8.5.

Monsieur Bové and his waxed moustache

8. José Bové

O.K. Ok-a-a-a-y. So he kinda looks like the leader of your dad’s Harley Owners’ Group. The one that spends far too much time twirling wax into his moustache. But he did blow up a McDonald’s (no casualties except us chickens!) and he did start the last election campaign from jail, which, you gotta admit, is kinda rad in that bad-boy/rad-boy/jail cell kind of way. Six-sur-dix (I know, I know) … I’d bump it up to a seven if it wasn’t for those awful denim shirts. (José, chéri, Paris is prolific in producing unemployed stylists…give me a buzz and I’ll introduce you to some, sometime.) (Petite question : What do you wear on a date to go and blow up McDonald’s?)

7. Le Garçon de La Timbale

You kinda know you’re hubba-hubba-hot, don’t you, as you sit there all slinky and sexy and smooth, stirring your coffee on the terrasse of La Timbale? You’re kinda the reason I take that route to get to Monoprix in the mornings – you know, the one that takes you right past the café? You kinda remind me a lot of Slash – you know, back in the good ol’ poofy poodle hair days, when he could still afford the good drugs. Except that underneath that ten-gallon top hat, I don’t think Slash was hiding an ever-expanding bald spot. Too bad about yours. Huit sur dix. Get your own ten-gallon hat and you’ll get your own neuf.

6. Jean-Marie Périer

I’ve always wondered whether Jean-Marie boasted the nickname Jules or Jim – you know, after that movie Jules et Jim starring Jeanne Moreau? – during that period when he alternated between playing second and third wheel in the whole Périer-Hardy-Dutronc love triangle. Talk about a typically French ménage à trois ! Nice photography, though. And while she’s never been my type, he did sleep with la Bardot back in her day. Which is something. The high-waisted pants, however, have got to go. Still, for an old dude, he’s pretty sexy, so I’ll give him a break by giving him a nine. Maybe the whole high-waisted trip is a generational thing?

5. Frédéric Beigbeder

The thing is, I didn’t put Frédéric Beigbeder on this list … not voluntarily anyway. He broke into my computer and added himself. I swear! He’s that way, you know. This is a guy who, on the dedication pages of his books, dedicates them – (“À moi !”) – to himself. I’ve never read 99 francs – his exposé on working in advertising – but you gotta admit that it is kinda cool he got fired “as planned,” by Young & Rubicam upon its publication. But for a guy who claims to know so much about ads, you’d think he’d know a little more about Photoshop. I mean, what was with that Galeries Lafayette advertisement that ran a couple of summers ago in the Métro, the one featuring him with a three-day beard but no chest hair? What’s with that? Cinq sur dix. Some of us like real men. (Oh, and I’ll check back later to make sure he hasn’t broken back in to raise his score.)

4. That Other Boy On The Métro (Line Four)

This time it was your Blackberry that was on the fritz, this time you were going to the MK2 Hautefeuille cinéma on the Left Bank. Nice nerve making fun of me for buying the Pariscope . . . after flipping through it. And what’s with walking me all the way to the cinéma – we were going to see the same film – and then you ditching me as if you had never even seen me before? And what’s with your girlfriend’s fashion taste? Doesn’t she know that those hippie pants look like diapers? Soooo unflattering to hippie-hips. I’ll give you a quatre-sur-dix, but that’s just because of my high esteem for cheekbones.

BHL: Representing Lame and Nice Hair

3. Nicolas Sarkozy

Ummm . . . so joking about this one.

2. Bernard-Henri Levy (dite BHL)

Yeah, he made The List, because some of us don’t discriminate, and someone has to represent Lame. Nice hair; too bad about the writing. God, so self-indulgently annoying, yet also so annoyingly self-indulgent. I’ll give him a two-out-of-ten, though. But that’s just because I want to know what hair product he uses. Do they give him the TV- philosopher’s discount?

1. That Other-Other Boy On The Métro From The Other-Other-Other Night (Line 12)

Hello?! Pouty-Lips? The Line 12 is not the kind of Métro line on which we drink beer. In public. And then spill it on nice girls’ Pariscopes. And by the way, beer’s not so great for iPhones, either. Did you ever make it to your movie date at La Pagode? Like I care. (You do get a sept-sur-dix for the lips, but that’s only because I have an imagination and can imagine them when you’re not slobbering.) A tip? Get your own Pariscope, Monsieur 1664.